The Newlyweds (10 page)

He turned from the back door to see Bridget walking through the kitchen, her bare back smooth and pale in the soft light, her long, long legs encased in smoky stockings, her slender arms wrapped in those black silk gloves. Here in this house, he thought as he watched her move fluidly and elegantly across the room, there was much to value and protect.

As if she'd heard him speak the thought aloud, she spun quickly around, naturally catching him in the act of ogling her. Sam didn't apologize, however, nor did he offer any excuses. Why should he? She'd dressed to be admired, and by God, he was admiring her. See? He really did have a deep appreciation for the finer things in life.

And that was when it hit him, why the two of them rubbed each other the wrong way. Or, at least, why she rubbed him the wrong way. Because he wanted her. In the most basic, most primitive, most intimate way a man could want a woman. And there was no way, he knew, that he could ever have her. She was just too far out of his league.

“So you enjoyed the performance tonight?” he asked her, even though he already knew the answer to the question.

She smiled, seeming relieved that he'd asked something so benign. “Yes, I enjoyed it very much.”

“You like the symphony, huh?” he asked further, even though he knew the answer to that one, too. Unable to help himself, he took a few steps forward, his shoes making a soft scraping sound on the linoleum as he approached her. But not another sound joined it, something that made the echo of it seem even louder, and somehow more ominous, than it should have.

She gave him a quizzical look, but nodded. “I love going to hear the symphony play. I've been going ever since I was a little girl. My parents took all of us when we were young. We had family subscriptions to all the arts.”

Sam nodded, too, and kept striding forward. Her parents had taken her to the symphony when she was a child. Presumably the ballet and opera, too. No doubt, they'd enjoyed art museums and such, as well. Sam's parents, on the other hand, had taken him and his brother Jeff to the movies. Or to ball games and church picnics. Those kinds of thing.

Of course Bridget Logan had always loved the symphony, he told himself. He'd wager she'd loved the ballet, too. Maybe even the opera. She probably still enjoyed spending time in places like art galleries, and attending garden parties, too. And he was the kind of guy who'd much rather watch a bunch of sweaty guys chase a small round object around, be it on a football or baseball field, a basketball court or a hockey rink. She looked completely at ease all dolled up in a dress that had probably cost more than his weekly paycheck, while he was more comfortable in jeans and flannel from the discount store. She came from a very long line of very blue blood, a family that had come by their money the old-fashioned way: by inheriting it. Sam's blood was a soup of ethnicity from every corner of the globe where backbreaking labor was the norm.

She couldn't have been more different from him. So why, in that moment, did he want her so much?

Too long without sex,
he told himself. It was nothing more than that. At this point, he'd find any woman desirable. Bridget Logan could be dressed like a giant duck, but as long as she had two X chromosomes, he'd want her.

And he really did want her.

“I don't think I told you how beautiful you look tonight,” he said as he came to a halt in front of her with only a few scant inches separating their bodies. And he surprised himself when he heard the comment. He'd been thinking it all evening, but he hadn't planned on saying it aloud. Why had it popped out now? Still, once the remark was out in the open, he didn't much want to call it back. It was the truth, after all.

Bridget was obviously surprised to hear it, too, because her eyes went wide, and her lips parted softly in astonishment. “I… No, you didn't tell… Thank you for…” She stumbled over the words as if she couldn't quite hold on to one response long enough to make sense of it or speak it in its entirety.

Sam instructed himself to tell her good-night and then hie himself off to bed before he said—or did something else that got him into trouble. But he couldn't quite bring himself to leave. He knew the reason—he wanted to prolong their time together in whatever way he could. In spite of not much caring for the symphony, he'd had a surprisingly good time this evening. And that could only be because of the company he'd kept. Besides, he was too keyed up to go to bed just yet. Her parents had had the right idea, wanting a nightcap before calling an end to the night. Maybe having a drink with Bridget would calm him down some, he told himself.

Oh, sure it would, he thought wryly. And maybe the next WWE Heavyweight Champ would be named Stone Cold Sheldon Abernathy.

“How about a nightcap?” he heard himself offer.

She wanted to say no. He could see that by her expression. But she didn't want to say no because she
didn't want to have a drink with him. He could see that by her expression, too. She wanted to say no for the same reason he wanted her to say no: because it wouldn't be a good idea. Not with both of them looking at each other the way they were at the moment.

In spite of that, Bridget smiled a little tentatively and said, “Sure. A nightcap would be great.”

Sam extended his hand to their left, toward the hallway that led from the kitchen to the den, where there was a wet bar tucked into one corner of the room. Bridget preceded him, knowing that was where he wanted them to go, and he followed her the short distance to the den. She tugged off her gloves as she walked, and all the while, she felt his gaze on her back as surely as if he were brushing his warm fingers over her bare flesh. And she wondered what he was thinking.

God, she wondered what
she
was thinking, to even think that. What did she care what Sam Jones thought about her or her back? Then again, what had she been thinking earlier, to have donned this dress in the first place? It was much too revealing, and normally she wouldn't have purchased anything like it. But she'd needed something to wear to the symphony, since she hadn't brought any appropriate clothing home with her. And she'd told herself she needed to dress like a good little trophy wife should, so that she would make her cover more authentic. This dress certainly did that.

And, dammit—she made herself admit it—she'd wanted to look nice for Sam, too.

She told herself it was only feminine vanity that had made her feel that way, that she'd wanted to be at her best simply because that was what she always strove to be. But she
had
been thinking about Sam in particular
when she'd first pulled the revealing little dress from the rack at the boutique, she had to confess. And she'd been thinking about him again when she put it on tonight. She just didn't know
why
she had been thinking about him.

Because he was so handsome, she told herself. Any man who looked like him, whether he was a corporate big shot or a construction worker, would take his pick among women. She'd wanted to make sure anyone who might be observing them would believe she had been the type of woman he would pick.

But would he really? she asked herself. Had they not been playing a part for a sting operation, would Sam still find her attractive? As attractive as she found him?

And why did the answer to that question matter so much to her?

It was silly to indulge in such uncharacteristic wondering, she told herself. It didn't matter if Sam found her attractive or not. And the fact that she found him attractive was totally immaterial. Because the two of them
were
just playing a part for a sting operation. And once that operation was over and they'd caught the bad guy and sent him to jail, she'd be leaving Portland—and Sam—and would probably never see him again. The last thing she needed to do was to develop feelings for him or to engender feelings in him.

So why was she trying so hard to attract him? And why couldn't she ignore the reaction she had toward him?

She pushed the questions out of her head without answering them. None of it mattered. Because Sam was too professional to let anything happen between them. And Bridget was, too, she reminded herself belatedly. Besides, at their very first meeting, he'd made it clear that he didn't approve of her. Yes, they'd been getting
along fairly well since then, but first impressions were lasting ones. Deep down, Sam probably still didn't approve of her. He might not even like her. She was just asking for trouble—on a number of different levels—to give in to her fascination with him.

Oh, she really should have just told him she was going to bed.

The den, like the rest of the house, was sumptuously decorated, its forest-green walls hung with oil-on-canvas paintings of hunt scenes, its furniture big, ornate mahogany pieces that had obviously been designed for a man. Built-in bookcases were full of books on topics that ranged from fly fishing to big business, and a couch pushed against one wall was covered in fine oxblood leather and was as large and arrogant as the rest of the furnishings. The room was a man's retreat, plain and simple, and Bridget felt small and vulnerable standing in the middle of it.

Especially when Sam followed her in. He was enormous and overbearing and masculine, too. The dark suit he'd worn to the symphony made him seem big and potent. It was cut in such a way that his shoulders looked even broader, and the dark color made him seem even taller. And where she had noticed that he usually began to dismember his suits the minute he walked through the door after work, tonight, for some reason, his attire was still flawless.

He crossed to the bar in the corner and, without even asking her what she preferred to drink, pulled down two cut-crystal old-fashioned glasses from a shelf. Then he bent to open a lower cabinet—and Bridget tried very hard not to notice how the back flaps of his jacket opened enough for her to glimpse the taut derriere
beneath—to pull out a bottle from among the varied assortment contained within. She recognized it immediately as a lovely old mellow Scotch.

He held it up for her approval. “Okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “But I'd like it on the rocks with a splash of water. Please,” she added in a belated attempt to be polite.

He dipped his head forward in what she thought might be approval, then turned to fix their drinks. He, she noticed, preferred his straight up, but he poured only a couple of fingers instead of filling half the glass as most men might have.

“There aren't many women who like Scotch,” he said as he turned around to hand her her drink.

She didn't bother mentioning that that was the very reason she'd cultivated a taste for the spirit. In the man's world where Bridget worked, she wanted to be respected as one of them. Then she remembered that, for Sam, at least, she'd wanted to play up her feminine side, too.

So which is it, Bridget?
she asked herself.
Do you want Sam to respect you as a co-worker or view you as a desirable woman? You can't have it both ways, you know.

And why not?
she asked herself in reply.

But herself didn't seem to have an answer for that one.

When Bridget took her drink from him, his hand accidentally—at least, she thought it was an accident—got tangled with hers for a moment, and the brush of his fingers felt warm and affectionate against her own. Ultimately, she had to bring up her other hand to take the glass so that it didn't spill, muttering a nervous, “Thank you,” as she did. In spite of the fact that it was only an unintentional, quick caress, her heart began to pound rapid-fire in response to it. And her pulse rate doubled
when she brought her gaze up to meet Sam's, because his eyes seemed darker than they had a moment ago.

He lifted his own drink to his lips as he watched her, and after inhaling a deep breath that she hoped might slow her heart rate, Bridget tasted her drink, too. But the fine smokiness of the spirit was lost on her; it could have tasted like ashes for all she knew, because all she could focus on in that moment was the way Sam Jones was looking at her.

Just what was he thinking? she wondered.

She received an answer to that question as quickly as she would have had she spoken it aloud, but it wasn't quite the answer she expected. Because after Sam swallowed his Scotch, he looked her right in the eye, parted those sexy lips of his, and said, very quietly, “So you think this socializing thing will work?”

And just like that, all the strange little fluttering inside Bridget fizzled right out. Yep, he was professional, all right. Damn him.

She stalled by enjoying another, larger, taste of her drink, letting the liquor warm her mouth and throat on its way down. And then, just for good measure, she sucked down another swallow, too. And then one more for even better measure. And, okay, one more, for the best measure of all.

“I hope so,” she said. Then, when she realized how nervous she sounded, she enjoyed yet another swallow of her drink. Oh, yeah. That was definitely helping. “I wouldn't have suggested it if I didn't think it had a chance.”

Sam nodded at that, but his eyes were still fixed on her face, and he still seemed to be thinking about something else. Bridget decided, though, that she was mistaken about that when he continued, “Of all the de
partments at Children's Connection, where do you think our baby seller is most likely to be working? Where's he most likely to be effective?”

She, too, focused her gaze on Sam's face, mostly his eyes—his gorgeous, sexy, blue, blue eyes—but asked, “Are we certain it's a he? Because I'm not so sure.”

And really, in that moment, with Sam looking at her the way he was, Bridget wasn't sure of anything. Except that a slow ribbon of heat was gradually uncurling inside her, starting in the pit of her stomach and easing its way upward, toward her heart. From there, she supposed, it could go anywhere, potentially overtaking her entire body. So she tried to think about something else instead. The case. Her drink. The symphony's performance this evening. The average annual rainfall in Albuquerque. Anything. Unfortunately, she discovered that all she could think about was Sam. And his blue, blue eyes. And his full, delicious-looking mouth. And his broad shoulders. And the way he was lifting his hand toward her face…